Of Cake and Sickbeds
by Luckystar27
Summary: Fifteen year old Mycroft is recovering from the flu. Sherlock makes him feel better. Just a fluffy one-shot. Enjoy!


_Hello there! This is just a fluffy little one-shot about Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood. Not my best work but it's been bouncing around in my head a while and I wanted to get it out. Mycroft is 15 and Sherlock is about 8. _

_Disclaimer: I won't insult your intelligence by assuming that you think I actually own these characters. _

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Mycroft huffed and pulled his navy duvet over his head, encasing himself in warm darkness. He had gotten the stomach flu about a week ago. Three days of lying in bed, throwing up, and feeling so utterly _awful _that he had actually let this mother coddle him-something she rarely got to do with either child and was positively thrilled with. He had been symptom free for the past two days, but his mother insisted that he remain in bed and was tentatively feeding him nothing but terrible, bland food.

Though Mycroft had inherited his mother's saint-like patience, the fifteen year old was becoming unbearably bored with his situation. He sighed and looked at the ever growing pile of completed books to his right. In the past four days he had done 250 Sudoku and 183 crossword puzzles, solved 97 riddles, and had read 4 political science textbooks.

It was odd, the thought as he poked his head out from under the covers, because normally he was more than content to sit around the house all day, just reading and doing schoolwork. And yet after being confined to his bed for a week he desperately wanted to _do_ something. _Go_ somewhere. Eat real food. A stroll around the garden would satisfy him right now.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Before he could reply the door opened and Sherlock slipped in, both hands clutching a miniature soup-crock. "My? You awake?"

"Yes," he immediately propped himself up so he was sitting against the headboard and smiled. Even in the form of his annoying little brother, any distraction was welcome. He was a bit surprised to see him though, as their parents had been keeping them separated since he came down with the flu. He really couldn't blame them. Sherlock was an absolute nightmare when he was sick. He had a tendency to make certain that everyone around him was suffering as much as he was.

Sherlock smiled back. "You look bloody awful."

"Language Sherlock," he chided, mimicking their father's "stern face" flawlessly. His little brother just rolled his eyes and stepped closer to the bed, a look of exaggerated sympathy crossing his features.

"I hear mummy is starving you with chicken soup and ginger ale."

Mycroft made a face of disgust. "A diet worthy of any prisoner."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed with a smirk, fiddling with the lid of the crock.

"Aunt Eleanor stopped by today."

Mycroft's head snapped up. Their mother's younger sister was an incredible baker, and every time she visited he and Sherlock were guaranteed a wide variety of cakes, cookies, and pastries fresh from her kitchen. She was one of their only relatives who didn't find their solitary tendencies strange or their intelligence unsettling. She fondly referred to them as "strapping young lads" and actually doted on them whenever she got the chance. He found himself longing for a taste of anything sweet, salivating at the very thought of her cinnamon buns dripping with vanilla glaze, apple pie smothered with whipped cream, and his very favorite- chocolate cake topped with raspberry icing.

"Did she bring anything?" He managed to control his voice, but he knew Sherlock saw right through it. Sherlock saw through everything nowadays.

His brother nodded eagerly. "Oh yes, she brought some wonderful honey bars, still all warm and gooey," he closed his eyes as if savoring the memories, "and some red velvet cupcakes with this amazingly fluffy cream cheese icing, and fresh jam donuts, dusted with powdered sugar." He opened his eyes. "Oh, and that cake you like so much, chocolate with raspberry icing."

Mycroft's stomach growled loudly, three days of chicken soup taking its toll. "Did she leave some for me?" He asked, not caring in the slightest that blatant desperation had crawled into his voice.

Sherlock sighed. "Aunt Eleanor wanted to, but Mummy wouldn't have it. She told her that you were too ill for sweets and to bring it home. She sent me up with some soup instead," he said, raising the mini-crock slightly. Mycroft deflated at those words, all the hope that had been fluttering inside him disappearing as crushing reality took its place. He paid no attention to Sherlock as he skirted around the pile of books and placed the crock on the bedside table.

"However," Sherlock started, regaining his brother's attention. "It is _possible_ that while Mummy and Aunt Eleanor were talking in the parlor I snuck a slice of cake, and _maybe_, I accidentally put it in a crock-pot, so _perhaps_ you should take a look inside before you spend the rest of the afternoon sulking." He placed a fork down on the table as well and turned to leave with a smirk. "Enjoy your soup."

Mycroft stared after Sherlock in wonder for a moment (the bland diet was clearly having adverse effects on his mental capabilities) before eagerly diving on the crock and tearing off the lid, the scent of raspberry and dark chocolate overwhelming his dulled senses. Nestled inside was a large slice of rich chocolate dark, smothered in a creamy pink icing, and topped with a bright red raspberry. Abandoning his normally strict self control he reached out a finger to swipe at the frosting, closing his eyes in pleasure as he sampled the velvety smooth confection. He picked up the fork and dug in, making a mental note that he owed Sherlock a big favor.

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_There ya have it! I hope you enjoyed!_

_I have a couple more of these in the works, so I might make this a mini-series type thing. Please let me know what you think ^_^_


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